On the Clock
by BrokenRepublic
Summary: The harrowing tale of an N7 squad's battle to secure Firebase White while their CO stuffs his face from the safety of his remote outpost.


A/N: My buddies and I have been playing a lot of ME3 multiplayer, and the one thing that we've been making fun of is the guy shouting orders at our squad—you know, the guy informing you of a mission objective and who initiates the wave. Our supposed CO has always gotten on my nerves since he nags and nags without doing anything to really contribute to our success. This fic is inspired by all the fun cracks we've made against our faceless, nameless CO. Enjoy!

* * *

**On the Clock**

It was just another routine mission, or so they told us. We had barely gotten through the N7 initiation when the brass tossed us on a cruiser bound for some remote base that, according to Hackett's people, was of "great strategic importance". Well, it must've been worth _something_ since the Geth, Reapers, and Cerberus were at each other's throats trying to claim it for themselves.

Or so I kept telling myself. Well, up until I died, at least. Didn't even drop anywhere nice. It was _Noveria_ for crying out loud! A Banshee "hugged" me and tossed me off a snowy cliff. I know what you're thinking: not the best choice for a girlfriend. But don't judge me. I can't help it that my good looks nabbed me all the Banshees on this side of Alliance-controlled space.

Well, anyway, after my stiff Salarian corpse rolled into the snow, my ghost got to thinking: how did I come to get stalked and hugged by a Banshee? Who's to blame for my death? Where would my little decoy go now that he was all alone in the cold, merciless, Reaper-infested universe? Would my Banshee girl cheat on me with him?

It was around that last thought that I could hear my CO calling out to me from the great beyond—a.k.a. his cozy little office on some remote moon in a system untouched by the Reapers. "Good shooting, team!" I could hear him proudly announce through a mouthful of half-chewed bagel. Some of the bagel bits spattered across his mic as he warned us to regroup and prepare for the next attack. I realized then that I wasn't really dead anymore. My pal DG, he's a Quarian medic. He had poured half his antibiotic rations over my corpse to somehow snag me away from the clutches of death.

I hated him for it.

No sooner had I popped my little scaly head out of a snow bank when I heard my girlfriend's shriek in the distance. Banshee was back and she had a bad case of the huggies. DG and I could hear our Turian comrade cry out as he dropped dead in the distance. Normally, I'd applaud the just end of the two-timing bastard my girl was cheating with, but in this case, I would've let him have her. Well, I guess I sort of did.

DG ran off to use some of his antibiotics, but some Cannibals ambushed us. Those little pests swarmed us until I pulled my decoy from out of the woodworks (or snow-works, I suppose) and let 'em have it. DG and I snuck out of that mess and ducked behind some nearby terminals for cover.

Sitting there behind those monitors taking pop shots at every blobby red mass that moved got me to thinking again. Dangerous, I know. But there I was, thinking like mad: "Why did the CO only send _four people_ to guard an entire base _swamped_ with Reapers?"

It was the craziest thing. The CO must've been a mind reader, because right then and there, I heard the crackle of the radio followed by a loud belch and a hushed "excuse me". The CO cleared his throat and announced: "You're doing a bang-up job, team!" It'd be a long time before the security vids would become public at his trial, but the CO was chowing down a classy turkey dinner while trying to boost our morale. He washed the first few bites down with a glass of vintage wine and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

"We chose only the best N7 operatives to secure this strategic location, and so far, you're doing great!" he continued. "Even if the Reapers hadn't killed all the Cerberus and Geth operatives, you four could've taken them all on single-handedly!"

And there it was: the truth. Command thought the three factions would've killed each other by the time _we_ got there. No wonder they couldn't spare more manpower; the brass were morons.

"By the way," he added as he picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes, "there's only one enemy left."

"Look at our mighty CO!" I thought as rolled out of the way of my girlfriend's rib-shattering hug. "By the goodness of his heart, he's _so helpful_ in pinpointing the last enemy who's right in front of my face! Thank you, Captain Jaquasse! Thank you ever so kindly!"

Not really.

DG and I ran away like a couple of hyperactive pyjaks who'd gotten a whiff of some sugar in the distance. I threw out another decoy, but she wasn't buying it. "I knew I shouldn't have worn cologne," I thought as I tried to rub the Marauder's blood off my armor. Whether she could smell that blood or not, she warped straight through the wall and hugged me. Again. Yeah.

Luckily, DG snagged a missile launcher off the corpse of a nearby fallen comrade and down went the Banshee, shrieks and all.

"Excellent work, team!" our CO said after gargling with some wine. "Stay alert! The enemy's regrouping."

Wasting some more antibiotics on this go-nowhere mission, DG revived the other members of our team.

"Okay, guys," I said, "we need to play better this time. Let's set off a bunch of biotic explosions and then—"

The CO interrupted me with his pertinent news regarding our most trying mission yet. "A Salarian STG team thought it would be a great idea to sneak into the base before you, the Reapers, Cerberus, and the Geth to upload some important data onto a nearby terminal. Your mission, should you choose to accept it"—like we had a choice—"is to download the data from that terminal and then upload it to our satellites via another terminal."

Everyone gave me the eye—even DG. I could just tell behind that antibiotics-steamed visor of his that he was cursing me with every cell in his body—even the white blood cells he lacked were cursing me in spirit.

"I'm not STG!" I shouted to no avail. The guys just marched on, with my Turian comrade shoving me hard into a crate as he passed.

He probably shouldn't have done that—not because of my broken rib, but because that crate exploded and gave away our position. By the time we reached the terminal, my resurrected girlfriend and three of her twin sisters were dancing around it like a bunch of drunken Asari losing their inhibitions on the dance floor.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, our Dunkin' Donuts spokesman of a CO came over the radio with a chocolate donut in one hand a glazed in the other. "There's been a change of plans, team. A different Salarian STG team has decided to plant hijacked Reaper tech in numbered locations across all corners of the base. Your mission is to acquire these items while remembering to download and upload the data. That is all."

My Turian compatriot pulled a Krogan and head-butted me into the terminal we were supposed to hack. It exploded, both complicating matters and again giving away our position.

The CO came back with another message: "The Salarian STG team is filing suit against your squad for property damages. Your mission is to hire a lawyer and appear in court the second Thursday of next month. You're also to quickly repair the terminal for downloading its contents. Hurry up! The clock's ticking!"

Needless to say, I was blamed for the whole mess, so I got stuck repairing the terminal while my four girlfriends tried to hug me.

See, this is why I hate being touched.

Besides, it's so hard to choose just _one_, you know? It'd tear my heart out. Well, _she_ would tear my heart out. Heck, all four of them would if they could, but alas, that privilege only goes to one.

Or, in this case, thankfully, to none.

DG somehow dug up another missile launcher and blew those witches to high heaven. I thanked him profusely and promised he could have all my future girlfriends since he knew how to handle them so well. Much to my chagrin, he declined.

"Get on those targets!" the CO chimed through a mouthful of Boston crème donuts. The security vids at his trial would later reveal that he had managed to cram seven—yes, _seven_ full-sized Boston crème donuts—into his pie hole at a time. "You're on the clock! Get it done!"

Having had enough of me for one mission, DG and the Turian ran to collect the Reaper tech while I was stuck fiddling around the terminal with my Vanguard comrade, Sgt. Diezalot. Well, not for long. The Sergeant thought it would be a good idea to jump into a mob of feasting Cannibals and he died. Again.

I wasn't about to waste my medi-gel on—ahem, I mean, I unfortunately could not spare the time to part from terminal maintenance to save him. After all, as the CO kept reminding me while roasting on his tanning bed: "You're running out of time! Get to that terminal!"

My ever-insightful CO didn't realize I was _already at_ the terminal. Perhaps the tanning bed was blinding his eyes too much to notice the difference. That margarita he was sipping through a straw didn't look like it helped, either.

When I finally got the thing up and running, my eyes narrowed and I stopped short of downloading the blueprints to build the universe's largest space yacht that the STG team had uploaded.

"Get it done! _Now_!" shouted the CO.

With great confusion, disgust, and reluctance, I began the download process. That's when the Brutes came and things got ugly. No, seriously. Have you seen the face of a Brute up close? The Reapers have no taste in aesthetics believe me.

My omni-tool could only hack the terminal from so far, but I had to run for my life. The Brutes would've crushed me otherwise. Not that the CO cared. He just kept shouting away, threatening me with a cut in my pay and a court martial, all while climbing out of his tanning bed and slipping into a Jacuzzi. The security vids would later display him basking in the hot jet streams while enjoying the company of three Asari and an Elcor female.

The Brutes came after me relentlessly until my comrades sniped them to death from afar. They rejoined me at the terminal, both carrying copies of the latest video games popular on the Citadel—a.k.a. the "Reaper tech". With our omni-tools combined, we managed to download the blueprints and then ran to the opposite side of the base through a horde of Marauders to upload the prints.

All the while, the CO continued to warn us of the clock ticking down as he groaned and moaned in pleasure at the back massage he was receiving. Who knew female Elcor had such a magical touch?

It was around the time that the upload was at 50% that I got to thinking: "Why couldn't we have done this while the enemy was regrouping?"

Some Ravagers had shimmied in just at the last minute and vomited their offspring onto DG, killing him instantly. Poor Quarian; children gave him hives.

My Turian comrade sniped the ever-loving snot out of the Ravagers and their kin just as the blueprints were fully uploaded. He and I finished off the remaining Cannibals and resuscitated our fall teammates just as the CO donned his pink, fuzzy robe and matching slippers. "Excellent work, team!" he said as he lit up a cigar. He took a few puffs of his stogie and then added: "Stay alert! Enemies are regrouping. Time to reload."

That was a no-brainer. I don't think any of us were willing to go toe-to-toe with the Reapers with just fisticuffs!

Actually, scratch that. Vanguard up and died again the second he saw a Ravager crawling up from the horizon.

The CO then came over the radio again, and the guys and I were praying hard for it not to be another hacking mission.

"A Salarian STG team," said the CO with a pause to spread some cream cheese on his bagel. During this brief moment of silence, the others shot murderous gazes at me. "As I was saying," he took a bite and swallowed, "A Salarian STG team has just informed me that we're in luck! Our ship's come in! There are some key enemy personnel in the area. Your mission is to eliminate the targets."

It was then that we saw a Cannibal hobble up the stairs. There was nothing special about him; he was just as deformed as the rest of his motley crew, scarfing what little remains of his brethren he could scavenge and shooting that same blasted pea-shooter as the rest. My team and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

"Hurry and get to that target!" barked the CO while scanning through his movie library. "Time's running out!"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen; there was a _time limit_ to kill the little _Cannibal that Could_. So we did. DG shot him in the face with his Widow and the CO praised us.

"Good work, team! There's a new high profile target! Go eliminate him."

Our next target was so laughable that even Vanguard's cold, maggot-infested corpse chuckled. Some lazy-eyed Husk charged up from the stairs only to smash his head into my Turian comrade's strategically placed fist.

Another Husk followed that target, and our final "high profile target" was a Swarmer.

Being a Salarian, I won't ever claim to know how, precisely, humans think. Their cognitive processes are a mystery to me, which is why you'll never hear me say that I understand humans. Standing in that freezing cold base that was infested with Reapers shooting off their guns in every-which direction, I couldn't understand a lot of things, but I made an effort to try up until that last bit. Our CO was a crock, and everyone knew it.

We didn't kill the Swarmer. I gunned down some Marauders and Brutes while the others handled my girlfriends, but none of us touched that Swarmer.

The clock was ticking, and every few seconds the CO would urge us to complete the mission. "Get it done! You're on the clock! Get to that target!" Regardless of what he said or through how many mouthfuls of mystery foods he said it, we scorched the base clean of everything _but_ that Swarmer.

I mean, really, why was there a time limit? What was the Swarmer going to do in the three minutes we didn't end its miserable, insignificant life? Hack our entire Alliance mainframe and give the data to Harbinger? It didn't even leave our sights! The stupid little bug hopped onto a crate and did a shuffle boogie across its edges for a couple of minutes before jumping down on my Turian pal and forcing him to commit suicide. He went to shoot it off, but missed and blasted his own face instead. Poor sap.

DG sacrificed the rest of his antibiotics stock to save our pal, but the Swarmer nicked his suit open. The hives got him again, and just like that, I was the last one standing.

I managed to gun down a few Cannibals while continuing to defy my CO's orders. Around ten seconds left on the clock, the CO's shouts grew more urgent and uncensored. I was impressed by his cultivated knowledge of derogatory slurs for Salarians. Out of irritation, I slammed my foot on the ground to let off some steam, inadvertently crushing the Swarmer in the process.

The CO calmed himself and praised me for my "battle prowess and ceaseless courage in the face of true evil". I hurriedly resuscitated DG, who then went off to play Necromancer for the others. That's when the CO gave us our final orders.

"Get to the extraction point!"

I couldn't help but wonder why we had been ordered to secure and guard the base if we were just going to flee anyway! It wasn't as though we had put any significant dent in the Reaper forces by picking off their mastermind Husks and Swarmers.

The CO urged us to the LZ two whole minutes before the carrier was set to extract us. Needless to say, if we all had sat in one place for two whole minutes, my girlfriend could've hugged me blindfolded. We ran like crazy all over the base, gunning down everything in our path. All the while, the CO kept shouting for us to hurry to the LZ. "Shuttle's on its way! Get a move on!" It was as if he _wanted_ the Reapers to swarm and execute us.

As the timer reached its last ten seconds, my girlfriend cornered me in the lab. She wanted to give me a hug goodbye as this was probably the last time she'd ever see me. Aww, how sweet.

Not.

I saved _my_ missile launcher just for that moment! She reached for me in that special way that she does—you know, the one that makes my heart stop beating—and tried to give me the hardest, toughest, most suffocating hug to date. But I blasted her to color the walls and ran for the LZ.

"Get a move on, soldier!" ordered the CO. The security vids would later show that as he said this, he shook hands to seal the deal with a Salarian STG team he had hired to construct his private space yacht.

I stumbled across Sgt. Diezalot's remains and onto the shuttle for a partial extraction. It was on the ride to HQ that we all checked our bank accounts to ensure that the Alliance had transferred their promised funds for putting our necks on the line.

They hadn't.

All our credits went to the CO's yacht project, or so the prosecutor would come to learn. It was a good thing we had kept that court date on the second Thursday of the next month. The judge was _very interested_ to hear about our CO's orders.


End file.
